Last rites

I attended the second virtual funeral of my life last week. The story is not mine to tell: Suffice to say a relative I don’t know very well died and I felt I should be around to support the surviving spouse, if at least virtually.

The first virtual funeral was my Mom’s. She died while Christina was pregnant, which would have made getting out to the States for the ceremony difficult at the best of times. Upping the ante, Christina was pregnant with Colin and had just broken her ankle after a fall down the stairs, so I really wasn’t going anywhere. My brothers set up a Skype channel so I could watch the ceremony and then they took turns carrying me around the reception. At some point, the video went wonky. I could see people but they couldn’t see me, so any conversation I had involved them asking me questions and me typing answers. It was precisely that surreal.

As I remember, I turned it into a decent story about online funerals for my employer. And then the German service translated the story and there was a kerfluffle about the fact I’d written it in the first person. If I remember correctly, the end result was a story in German with someone else’s byline in which I was “interviewed” for the parts where I discussed my mother. And then I think they had to change the name, because of rules against employees being interviewed by the surface. If nothing else, it made the experience memorable.

This funeral also had several Colin connections. First of all, it was at the cemetery in Texas where my relatives set up a memorial bench in his honor. And the bench is surrounded by a playhouse that has a wi-fi connection, which proved important because – and maybe I’m wrong about this – the wi-fi connection was helpful in allowing this funeral to be livestreamed. Honestly, Christina and I had forgotten about the wi-fi until we were reminded about in during a conversation about the funeral. If nothing else, it was a good chuckle. Say what you want about Colin, but the boy appreciated a good, strong internet connection.

Additionally, the surviving spouse … let’s put it simply and say that this person and I don’t agree on anything politically. And, back in 2016, when Colin first got his cancer diagnosis and it seemed like a good idea to me to vent my anger by getting into Facebook fights, this relative and I went around and around a few times.

So, when I found out about the spouse’s impending death, I reached out. It was cancer, of course. I feel that cancer just surrounds me sometimes. But that’s not the reason I reached out. I figured this person knew their loved one was about to die and that was too similar to what we went through with Colin that I figured I needed to reach out and try to help a little. I really felt that I would have this. This might be something I would be good at. Maybe losing Colin like I did would help me be able to reach out to other people suffering.

Well, it turns out I’m not a natural at this. One of my first interactions almost resulted in a new Facebook fight about the coronavirus, but we backed off. And we’ve had some good emails. It’s not mine to say if they’ve been helpful or not. I’ve no idea if this is going to be a regular thing or not. I’m certainly not a smotherer: I really like my distance from people. And I think it wasn’t such a surprise to me that I had no words to salve the pain because, honestly, what do you say to someone watching their partner die? There’s no combination of words to take the sting off that.

I think all I got out of it was another realization that none of this makes you stronger or smarter or better. You just need to keep moving on, if not for yourself, then for the other people who rely upon you. Or perhaps there’s no message at all. I know I was glad for everyone who reached out to me when Colin died. I suppose it’s the least I can do to return the favor or pass it forward when I find the tables turned from now on.